


All we want is routine

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse, DCU AU
Genre: Gen, M/M, minor characters' death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing that fades away from the paper is Tim Drake’s smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All we want is routine

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of **important** : This is an AU, were Robin(s) doesn't exist (or doesn't exist yet). Also, Bruce suffers from something very similar to a split personality disorded, though I think in his case it's more connected to Batman and his personas.

In Gotham things fade by inches, colour by shape, centers to the corners; weak against the wind and helpless when rain drops down their necks, soggy when the paper lets go and when it lets go they will drown before they can be washed away, a tapestry on the sides of the river.

Memories disappear under the gaps, under the spaces he tells them to, whole persons get lost in the in-betweens of his cowl, between his hair and the sticky glue of sweat, he finds them when he soaps his skin away, when he drags his clothes to get clean. 

For three years, the posters haunt Gotham and for seven they stay with _him_ , stuck to the borders of his pride, pinned above his head, under his feet, on the cold, wild corners of his room; a single printed picture, the relics of postponed endings, of endless interludes.

On the outside, the photograph dissipates, clogs the drains of Gotham’s arms and is a taste of the air, smog and smoke and loss, industrial and human and he’s not either of those, he’s not a mixture nor a single substance; ethereal inside the insides of the city, intangible on the outside of the streets. 

It’s not nearly the first thing that goes; that were his parents and the boy’s parents and the boy’s presence, first to go were the details of his solemn, small face and name and clothes and now he’s the one still left, he’s the one variable to the Drake mansion, to the halls that won’t count cobwebs when it’s all they are, won’t finger paint in dust. 

(The boy is what’s left of the definition of the house; who the house belongs to, who the house might not meet.

He’s the one who's nearly dead, nearly buried, nearly a solved case.)

Yet he’s all that’s _left_ , all that’s _right_ ; the vague blue of his eyes and the rusty slope of his nose, the distorted lines of his neck.

(He won’t say anything about the thin of his mouth or the shy of his lips, won’t talk about lifts of corners or hints of ivory; he won’t and he can’t.) 

Because the first thing that fades away from the paper is Tim Drake’s smile.

\---

Bruce is the happier of them and Tim steals the laugh to his skin, touches his mouth and ears and neck when he’s seven and the lamps aren’t light enough, aren’t the sun and his Mom’s diamonds, when the books aren’t the spice to his cravings and when Bruce is the only warmth he can accept, he touches and touches and only when he’s thirteen he becomes shyer, reserved under his fingers until Bruce asks and Tim has to shake his head and hide to the attic and see the faked projection of stars, illusion after illusion building between his ribs, until Bruce’s hand weaves through his shoulder and there are stones, pebbles set into Bruce’s fingertips and Tim forces himself to forget to ask, to pretend he’s a plastic shape of a boy, saved and preserved inside a dollhouse where Bruce is all he has and his name has no meaning behind his own lips, no meaning on anyone else’s. 

He’s seven and he’s still as missed as he misses, soundlessly from his chest, in tiny bites he takes from his breakfast, in the stutter he has until he’s ten and starts growing into his voice, seven as pretends to be clumsy in things he wants to be better at, in things he wants Bruce to teach him again.

“Eat up, tiger,” Bruce would say and the kitchen counter would be a yellow glow, every ceiling a fragment of night’s skies, Tim’s fists around the cutlery until Bruce pries them open, the soft move so startling Tim loosens his palm to limp and stutters out a _s-so-sorry_ , sheepish and vaguely flushed like the tips of his ears in winter, hot under his face.

“It’s easier if you hold them like this, baby boy,” and when Bruce cuts the meat through his fingers Tim might dream about eating years from now on, might dream of Bruce shoving the plate away and pulling Tim on the edge, of the table, of his senses, of Bruce’s own clothes, always rich and thick between Tim’s fists, under Tim’s sleepy weight.

(Thirteen year old Tim wakes up aching and damp and his lungs search for breathes scattered across his body, scattered across the sheets of his thighs but he’s aware of where they are and who they should belong to, who won’t ever appreciate him, won’t ever need him the way he feels would be breathless, as breathless as he was as a child under the soapy waves of the bathtub or within a scene in the books Bruce doesn’t want him reading, as breathless as he was the night he searched through Wayne’s gardens to dull the yells of arguments and the complete quiet of peace, no echoes and no twins to his questions, no echoes or twins to his voice.)

He remembers saying: “There’s no home to me yet.” saying that because homes are attached and missed and homes are with you without houses to touch and right now, he’s alone in a garden that doesn’t bloom when he needs it to, with a man whose smile is slipping down the corners and sharp spots of his face, with a man that drinks champagne in glasses too tall for kids without ties and with bare hands, sticky from the large glasses of juice.

Bruce crouched to his height then, one knee a pillar sewed into the ground, the second a bent twig, a cliff that wouldn’t let him fall and his jacket engulfed his tiny peaks of shoulders, the naked of his elbows, the blue paint under nails, under thin skins of mouths. It smelled like a stranger, like a thing that waits to happen, to him, to this garden, to the way he’s growing up and the next morning, he was safe. The jacket was tucked between his elbow and side and the things they said were _Hello, Mister Wayne_ and _Good morning, tiger_ ; the things they wanted was routine.

(They have it in months.)

\---

The house is an accessory inside of woods, inside of soil and pine trees and trees that sweep leaves over to the porch; vast as a desert, vast to Tim and to his kid’s toes; there’s no one there but there’s everything, it’s a world he wants to gasp at, say hello to every silhouette and for a whole, seven day week Bruce doesn’t leave, fills what Tim finds, what Tim says is empty.

(What he hesitates over understanding.)

When Tim is ten he’s allowed to go outside too, the papers of his loss soggy and fire fodder, his Mother’s diamonds all that’s left of her on her bones and his Dad’s watch ticking in empty rhymes, lagging behind, its rhythm lost, its song barely heard.

They have hours of days and Tim studies through afternoons and at noon, they reopen ancient cookbooks and share meals from the sides of the table, from the sides of ceramic bowls while there are clouds discoloring them in smears, while the sun buzzes on their skin.

Some days Bruce winces and some days Tim has a cold, sneezing out his name with a clogged throat so Bruce plays movies, watches TV until Tim’s eyes shut, until he’s another screen, moving with sleep only, moving minutely under his dreams.

But Tim was never meant to be Black Dahlia, wasn’t meant to become cold or be anyone’s failure, wasn’t meant for a single house with simple homes so when Batman shows up at three am and grinds his teeth and is afraid to touch Tim, with Tim in pajama pants and Bruce’s own, woolen sweater that’s too big, too loose for anything of Tim’s, Tim recognizes the hesitance, the frown, the expand of his chest, Tim recognizes _him_ and asks: “Bruce?” and Batman grabs him, takes him out of his chair, out of his room, out of his house but he’s soft like always, soft even with gauntlets and a cape that slaps against Tim’s calves. He’s stunned when he says “Sit,” the doors of the swallowing black of a car opening before Tim’s half-naked feet, stunned when Tim sits. 

He wants to buckle his seatbelt but Tim does it himself, looks for Bruce inside the lenses and finds him under the cut of his cowl, a flicker but all it does is take Batman a few steps, a few years back; to the poster, the number, the younger shape of Tim’s face.

\---

After Tim unbuckles his seatbelt again, he’s not a dead boy anymore. After Tim steps out onto the dry skin of the floor, after his socks leave damp and dirty footsteps a child could track, Tim understands that he might not be Bruce’s either.

(But that he might not have been found.

Not yet.)

Because now, now he’s just a boy living inside a Manor.

\---

He withstands it, through five days. Through seven glimpses of Bruce, through an hour of questions a day, through meals he only knew as reheated, through a house that is crowded with another person inside, another person that wakes him up inside his waking, that touches his curtains, picks up his clothes and cooks from breakfast through lunch to dinner, that makes him tea despite of Tim stealing cups and sipping coffee when he’s not supposed to.

(But half-sipped coffees are all that’s left, all that’s familiar so he sips on them again and again, leaves them in his room to cool, to lose warmth, to paint over the scent of fresh sheets and old books, to set up the scenery of his home.)

Steals and drinks cups until it’s not enough and on the sixth night, he follows Batman until he’s forced to stop, until he’s in a corner of the house he can’t get out of and Tim feels like this, wants to make him feel it too because Tim is always in some corner of a house now and he has never missed Bruce more, hasn’t missed _anything_ like this, in days and roads of thoughts, maps of towns and woods he misses him in too but the conversation goes nowhere, goes from: “Why can’t you stop avoiding me?” through “You’re not safe with me around.” to “I _stole_ you.” until Tim tries to touch this out, until Tim tries to be quiet and a good kid and know all the answers, until Tim presses his palm to Bruce’s wrist and he slaps it away, so sharp it forgets to hurt, a sting more _under_ Tim’s skin than on it and he backs away, goes backwards like a clock that rewinds, goes back and back and back until his stutter is back too.

“Y-you’re right. I’m not safe with _you_ ,” Tim accuses and it’s like he’s outside of his own skin, like he’s scrubbed raw, like there’s only salt for him left to use. There’s a scent of a half-drank coffee lurching through the room, just a draft, a memory but it’s enough for Tim to pretend Bruce stands behind him, behind some of the countless doors; not right here in this foreign, stiff room. 

“ _Bruce_ has never hurt me.”

It’s hurtful and it runs from his mouth before he knows his feet are running too, through halls with unseeing eyes that ignore whether he’s loud or whether he’s an earthquake for the floors, for the paintings below, for the crystal chandelier to announce the shakes.

The whole house doesn’t speak; Batman in Bruce’s skin doesn’t sit with him for too big meals and it’s the next night Tim tries again, the seventh sunset that shines through his face. 

He’s not stupid, he’s not a Stockholm Syndrome boy and he’s stubborn where it counts, in his bones and muscles and there’s only one way to bent his thoughts, there’s only one person he wants on his lips and Tim can’t not snap against the lonely pressure and go down the dry ice stairs, find him between Tim’s missing poster and a chair and for a minute Tim takes in everything he’s not, how he doesn’t acknowledge him right away, how he types with both hands but half of his mind, how he strays from the spot Tim’s seeping cold through.

“Too guilty to face me?” Tim pushes and Batman pulls, his face naked, his cowl between his shoulders and he might feel height will make him stronger, will scare Tim, that if he looms Tim will shrink, curl like the corners of a wet page, will wilt like ashen paper over flames but he won’t; he’s not easy to let down, he’s not easy to disappoint and he thinks there’s only one thing neither expects so he leaves balance to the tips of his toes and to his knuckles, to his hands mixed with the heavy insides of Batman’s cape, leaves it to the center of him and Tim’s mouth reaches his, Tim’s mouth copies, Tim’s mouth kisses and his fingers clutch and Tim’s touching a statue, he _might be_ but then Bruce moves under his clumsy press and it’s _Batman_ that flinches away seconds later, that asks: “ _Have I ever_ done _something to you_?” horrified and frozen again, a collection of bad, sick emotions within one box. 

(And maybe Tim is one, maybe Tim is Pandora’s Box personified, maybe he’s a vessel with his own feelings carved onto his outside and for once, he wants Bruce to read them; to learn about the inscriptions of him, about the language he speaks.)

“No. You didn’t even know I wanted you to,” Tim answers, too sad to feel comfortable, too lonely to let go and when Batman’s not doing anything Tim gets annoyed, Tim gets insecure, Tim gets finally let down.

“ _Give him back_ ,” he pleads against Batman’s chest and can’t stand that he’s not capable of letting go, of trying to injure his skin. “I don’t care _when_ , I don’t care if it's not for a long time – just give him back. If… if it’s impossible, I don’t _need_ the house. I don’t _need_ the life I had. But _I need him back_.”

Tim is frowning and it’s Batman who’s copying now, who’s adapting to be open, to be more like _Bruce_ but this time, there’s something sad scattered across the lines of his mouth. 

“He kidnapped you, Tim. _I_ did,” he answers and waits for it to sink in, to sink to the bottom, to sink until Tim sees.

(To sink until Tim won’t be able to breathe.)

“He only wanted to protect me. _You_ wanted to,” Tim says, shivers. 

Batman pushes against him, runs to the city, tells him to go upstairs to get warm, says: “What he did was _wrong_.” and then he’s not paying attention, then he’s driving away, then he’s leaving Tim and his poster behind his back. 

Tim’s dinner goes cold.

\---

His dinner gets reheated and it’s a punch, a gut quivering sensation that stuffs his insides, that makes them food-proof and he takes three bites and goes to shower, goes to bed without the intention to really live through it with sleep, intents to get through with more than a book they didn’t read together and when the door opens he’s wary, he’s uncomfortable until he closes the room to the house, until he sits on the bed and embraces his shoulders, until he covers the round sculptures of them with his palms, and it’s Bruce, it’s _him_ saying “ _Jesus, tiger_ ,” it’s him kissing Tim’s forehead, it’s Tim aiming for the corner of his mouth again, it’s Bruce giving him a bit of his lips, a bit of his teeth, a bit of his tongue before he holds him, before he says: “I can’t stay long, baby boy.” but he folds Tim into himself and Tim lets himself become a blanket, a jacket, the front of a shirt, something that comforts and is scented with people that keep it warm, scented with something known.

“He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like _you_ ,” Tim murmurs and it’s important to answer, it’s important to know and Tim only wants Bruce too, he only wants this person with ordinary clothes and light hearted nature but solemn thoughts, this person that stole him from under the noses of Gotham’s homes. 

“He’s scared of you,” Bruce says, sews into the mess of Tim’s hair, the gaps between them smaller than they ever were, than Tim wished to hope for but now he holds the seams, now he holds Bruce like he was designed to always be here, to always hold his hips. 

“He’s scared of _us_ ,” Tim points out, curls closer. “I don’t like him at all. I don’t want him being you. I can’t _stand_ him as you,” he adds, brushes the words against Bruce’s ribs.

Bruce nods, light hearted to solemn to his. “I know, tiger. I know.”

(He leaves after three hours and Batman comes to check up on Tim, comes to see his unmade bed and he looks like he wants to say sorry, like he wants to do more than watch as Tim pretends to read, pretends to see him, pretends that he’s not trying to hide.)

But – _try to understand_.

Tim might not be allowed to live in his house again. Bruce might not come back, might not be the stronger side of the person inside of his room. 

The Manor is too noisy, too stretched-thin under his feet.

And he’s in love with half of a person.


End file.
